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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23676334">Missing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueleaf12/pseuds/Blueleaf12'>Blueleaf12</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Don't Starve (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Backstory, Character Death, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Period-Typical Sexism, Spanish Flu tw, Spoilers for DST, Swearing, thinly veiled coping for the quarantine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:22:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,635</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23676334</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueleaf12/pseuds/Blueleaf12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On a cold winter’s night, Winona asks Woodie about his ties and disappearance from Voxola in Sidney, Ohio. At first reluctant to answer, Woodie recounts his time before The Constant, and what happened to Lucy, before telling the truth.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lucy/Woodie (Don't Starve), Woodie &amp; Wagstaff (Don't Starve), Woodie &amp; Winona (Don't Starve)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Did I technically make an AU of a story I already wrote? I sure did! Am I projecting a little because of the quarantine and being unsure about my job in the future!? Fuck around and find out!</p>
<p>This story went through a LOT of changes while I was planning it out. I originally wrote some scenes out, scrapped it because I didn’t like it and lost motivation for it, but then got into a mood to revamp it and fix it. So here this is!</p>
<p>Information about logging and lumber yards was taken from the Canadian Encyclopedia. </p>
<p>Lucille is my kinda fan character/OC based on Lucy the Axe.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Hey Woodie, can I ask you somethin’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie stopped his whittling and glanced up at Winona from across the fire. Snow fell from the sky around them, reminding them of home. “I don’t see why not.” Woodie said. He returned to his whittling. “I’m still listenin’. Something on your mind, eh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Winona rubbed at her neck. Suddenly, she looked like she didn’t want to be there. “A little.” She picked her words carefully. “Before… this place, I worked at a factory in Ohio. It was called the Voxola Radio Company. You wouldn’t know anything about it… would you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie’s hand hovered above the small log. It shook slightly. His grip on his knife tightened in an attempt to stop the shaking. “What makes you think I’d know somethin’ about that, eh?” Woodie’s voice was strained. He forced himself to look at Winona.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She took a breath. “I found some… interesting evidence there, that you were there for some time. Some people that knew you. See… I’m looking for my sister, Charlie. She went missin’ in 1906.” She paused. “And you helped bring me to someone possibly involved in her disappearance.” Another pause. “Care to explain yourself?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I don’t know anything about your sister’s disappearance.” Woodie mumbled. “I was there for a job and a job alone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Winona watched Woodie continue to whittle, but his strokes were slower and more calculated. He chewed his inner cheek. “It was just to provide wood for Robert Wagstaff for construction of the factory, and to clear out extra land around it for eventual housing development. That’s it. Whatever other ill intentions he had behind that… I don’t know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I see.” Winona said. Disappointment was buried under her words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d prefer to not talk about it further.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s fine. That’s all I really wanted to know, really.” She paused, her voice sounding more hopeful. “But if you remember anything that I should know about—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“—I’ll let you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright.” She said. “Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie seemed to relax and was mostly back to his old self. “Now, who’s gonna take first watch?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Winona volunteered. Woodie curled up in his straw roll with his back to the fire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sleep would not take him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tried listing as many tree species as possible in his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sleep would not take him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a light sigh, light enough to not get Winona’s attention, he opened his eyes to the dark, dreary landscape. Anxiety and sadness gnawed at him. His gaze focused on Lucy resting a few feet away from him, lodged protectively in an old tree stump.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not just Lucy. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He thought. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lucille.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hadn’t thought about that name in a long, long time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seeing Lucy was enough to calm him down enough to sleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However, he did not rest. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Woodie? Woodie! Wake up!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie awoke with a jolt, peeling his cheek from the train car window. He looked around, fighting grogginess; the car was mostly empty, save for him and a few stragglers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone nudged him awake. It took Woodie a few seconds to remember his name. “...Michael?” He asked. “Are we there yet?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just arrived.” Michael replied. He stepped away from him and went to retrieve Woodie’s stuff. “I almost thought you were dead, if I’m honest.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That got a small chuckle out of him. He got up and stretched, wincing at his stiff back. “How long was I out for?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A few hours. I think you passed out around Quebec City.”  Michael said. After he pulled Woodie’s luggage out, he tossed it to him. “Here, catch!” Still half awake, Woodie fumbled with it, nearly dropping it on the ground. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks.” Woodie mumbled. He went and fished his guitar case out and slung it over his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You might wanna hurry up.” Michael said. “Your lady’s waitin’ for you outside.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That woke Woodie up. He almost hit his head on the overhead compartment in surprise. “Lucille?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>wife.” Michael said, voice deadpan, before he broke into a grin. “Yeah, she’s waiting for you outside with a sign and everythin’. I think she missed you a little.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie rolled his eyes. “Are you gonna let me get off then or what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, alright.” Michael said. He stepped off to the side, letting Woodie shoulder past him. Before he stepped off the train, Michael stopped him. “Woodie?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie looked back at him. “Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t forget what’s been offered to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I won’t.” Woodie replied. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, eh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And with that, Woodie stepped off the train.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The train station was packed, full of other holiday travellers. Snow fell outside in clumps, pelting everyone that came inside for shelter. Woodie looked around, trying to pick out his wife. At first, he couldn’t find her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Was Michael just fucking with me? That’s like him, alright, getting my hopes up—</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“—Woodie!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie’s head snapped in the direction of the voice he missed so much. And there was Lucille, clad in her favourite purple dress, hat, and overcoat, shouldering through the crowd towards him. She had a huge grin on her face, hiking up her skirt so she wouldn’t trip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Luce!” Woodie dropped his luggage on the ground to bring Lucille into a hug. He held her tightly, swinging her around in a circle before setting her on the ground. They shared a brief, passionate kiss, before Lucille buried her face into his shoulder. They held each other for a few seconds, taking each other in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good God, I missed you.” She mumbled, eventually letting up on the hug and getting a better look at him. “I was almost worried they were gonna make you stay longer!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me too.” Woodie said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t remember the last time you’ve been home this early for the holidays.” Lucille said. She bent down and grabbed Woodie’s luggage, before taking him by the hand. “C’mon, we should head home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Home. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He almost forgot about their little lakeside place. His heart ached for it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Woodie said. “I’d like that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They caught up over dinner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So… do you know when you’re gonna head back to the yard?” Lucille asked. Her voice was hard to read, but her face betrayed her. She didn’t look Woodie in the eye. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie chewed the inside of his cheek. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now’s the time.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Well… in the new year, I’m not heading back there, Luce.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucille’s fork stopped inches from her mouth. Her averted gaze snapped to Woodie’s. “...What? Why the hell not?” Her light tone of voice was gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know what you’re thinkin’.” Woodie reassured. “The yard was bought out a few days ago. Some inventor out in the States hired us all. He wants us to head to Ohio in the New Year. Offering room and board, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucille’s hand hovered there. “Ohio? What the hell do they need you in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ohio</span>
  </em>
  <span> of all places?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie gave a half hearted shrug. “Dunno. They didn’t give a lot of details, but they’re building some kind of factory out there. They need us on site for supplies and such. He’s also planning on using the cleared out land for real estate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucille remembered she was eating and popped her fork in her mouth for a few seconds. “Why don’t they get their </span>
  <em>
    <span>Americans </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do it? Are you sure this is real?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie gave another shrug. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Lucille asked, her brows knit together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wish I did.” Woodie sighed. “It came up so last minute, I didn’t have enough time to send you one last letter. I didn’t really have another choice. It’s either Ohio, or… I’m out of a job.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was afraid you were gonna say that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence fell between them, broken by the scrapping of cutlery on plates. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucille was the one to break it. “...Do you know how long they want you in Ohio?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie shook his head. “It could be a few months to a few years. All I know is that it ain’t seasonal anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So… it could be a semi-permanent move?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie nodded his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...You know I don’t really want to move.” Lucille said. “Montreal and Ottawa are all that I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I know, Luce. I know.” Woodie paused. “...You don’t have to come with me, if you don’t want to. I’ll be okay on my own. I’ll send money back, like I’ve always done. We can make it work if you wanna stay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Lucille sighed. “But I don’t want to be separated from you if I can help it! It’s hard enough you’re gone for </span>
  <em>
    <span>months</span>
  </em>
  <span>, let alone the possibility of </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I don’t think I could do that, Woodie. I really can’t. I’d rather die.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Thanks, Luce.” He said. “But what about your family?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can tell them after Christmas.” Lucille replied. “They won’t be happy, but… I don’t think they can really stop us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You sure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. As long as I’m with you.” She nibbled on her fork again as she stared off to the side. “I suppose we could rent the house out for a bit if we decide to move back. Have my dad check up on it every once in a while or something. We can come back up and visit for the holidays...” She trailed off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie reached over and took her hand across the table. She snapped out of her daze and looked at him. “If that’ll work for you, I’d be okay with that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me mull it over for a few days, before I give you my final verdict.” Lucille said. “For now, though, I just want to enjoy your company.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Isn’t this a bit overkill?” Woodie whispered to Lucille, awkwardly smoothing down his tweed jacket and slacks. They waited before Robert Wagstaff’s office in a small building off site. A secretary peered at them through her thick glasses, her expression unreadable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t hurt to make a good first impression, hm?” Lucille replied back. She was wearing one of her fancier overcoats to the cold January air. “Besides, I don’t think we’re the only ones.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose you’re right.” Woodie replied.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They waited a few more seconds, shifting their weight on their heels, until the door to Wagstaff’s office opened. Out stepped an older man with greying hair and thick glasses, even thicker than the secretary's. He wore an apron covered in grease marks. “Mr. and Mrs. Lennox?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s us.” Woodie said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excellent!” Wagstaff opened the door further for them. “Do come inside and make yourself at home. We have </span>
  <em>
    <span>plenty </span>
  </em>
  <span>to discuss.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie and Lucille glanced at each other, before following Wagstaff into his office. It was a small room, with a desk in the middle. Various filing cabinets were pushed to one side, but no paper was out of place. There was a chalkboard on one wall, full of Wagstaff’s scribbled handwriting and various diagrams. His desk was mostly empty, save for a few papers. Other than that, it was empty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Almost too empty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a pleasure to have the both of you here.” Wagstaff said when they sat down before him. He shook Woodie’s hand. “It’s greatly appreciated you travelled all the way here on such a short notice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s nothing, really.” Woodie said. “We were looking for a change in scenery, anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a beautiful location.” Lucille commented. “And very… </span>
  <em>
    <span>different</span>
  </em>
  <span> compared to back home. It’ll take some time getting used to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This wasn’t my original building location.” Wagstaff admitted. “I was originally planning somewhere in the state of New York, but that didn’t work out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anyway.” Wagstaff said, changing the subject. “To talk about specifics. We’re going to need your logging skills, Mr. Lennox. I have big plans for Voxola, and need all the help I can get.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please, call me Woodie. You don’t need to be that formal, sir.” Woodie said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wagstaff pulled out a pen and scribbled something on the paper before him. “Noted.” He said. “Anyway, I’ve spoken with various other contractors, and they estimate the factory will take approximately three years to complete. I know you mostly work in the winter months, but it’ll be all year round, here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Woodie said. “We’ll adapt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excellent.” Wagstaff wrote more notes down. “As you know, you’ll be provided housing until the factory is completed. I can’t exactly give it out for free, but will deduct rent every month from your pay for the land. Once the factory is completed, you’re welcome to stay and live here, if you wish. You can buy the property from me. Or you can move back to Canada. It’s up to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll decide when the time comes.” Lucille replied. “We’ll let you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Now, aren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> rather bold.” Wagstaff commented, a knowing smile on his face. “I’ve never been the once for romance myself, but you’ve picked an </span>
  <em>
    <span>excellent</span>
  </em>
  <span> wife, Woodie. I almost envy you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the corner of his eye, Woodie saw Lucille’s normally relaxed face flush a faint red. Her lip twitched, attempting to hide a snarl behind her red lips. She didn’t reply. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mr. Wagstaff.” Woodie’s voice was light as he attempted to steer the conversation. Lucille had a death grip on his thigh. His stomach clenched. “What is it that you’re making here? You’ve mentioned the company, sure, but… I still don’t know what you need this factory for. If you don’t mind me asking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That got Wagstaff’s attention. “I’m very glad you asked that.” He replied. “I won’t bore you with the technical jargon, but I’ve invented my very own radio for production! It’s still in the prototype and testing phases, but it should be finalized by the time the factory opens. I’ve had many investors, mostly over the excellent sound quality and reception. My previous invention, the Gramophone ML-77, was sort of a pre-test phase to see what I was capable of. While the sound was good, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> have been better, which motivated me to go through with the PR-76. At this rate, at the turn of the decade, the radio will be </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> invention of the 1910s!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I remember that phonograph!” Lucille piped up; her voice sounded slightly strained as she plastered a smile on her face. “My parents have one of those. I had no idea </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> invented that. Incredible!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you.” Wagstaff replied. “It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>one of my proudest inventions, even if the PR-76 is going to be better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They discussed a few more things, before Woodie and Lucille could leave. They bid Wagstaff one last goodbye, before leaving the building. As soon as they stepped out onto the road, they made their way towards their new home. “So.” Woodie said, breaking the silence. “What do you think of him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucille let out a breath. “I still don’t know.” She finally said. “But he rubs me the wrong way. He seems smart, sure. Capable. But almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> smart for his own good. Too ambitious. With the way he talked…” She shivered. “I have a bad feeling about this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was hoping you weren’t going to say that.” Woodie sighed. “I can mostly deal with him, I think, if you don’t want to see much of him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you don’t mind.” Lucille said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And it’s only for a few years.” Woodie said. “What could happen?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“...You sure you started puttin’ things away? It looks about the same since this morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, believe me, the house looked way worse before.” Lucille replied. “This is an improvement.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie looked at their kitchen; boxes covered nearly every surface, save for a small part of their kitchen counter where they ate dinner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t think we even </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> that much stuff.” Woodie mumbled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me neither.” Lucille replied. “A lot of this is stuff my parents gave us, though. I’ll have to sort through it all and see what we really need.” She leaned against the counter, shoulders slumped in exhaustion, but her eyes shone bright. “At around lunch time I got a knock on the door. I didn’t find anyone behind it, but I got some kind of package from Voxola. I took a break and opened it, and found that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you know who </span>
  </em>
  <span>sent us that gramophone my parents have.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I was wonderin’ what that empty box was.” Woodie said, gesturing towards it on the counter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Lucille said. “I set it up and everything, but we don’t have any records to play yet.” She rolled her eyes. “It was a ‘gift’ for our anniversary. I didn’t have the heart to send a letter back and tell him it’s in six months.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That got a chuckle out of Woodie. “He’s tryin’, I suppose.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He could try harder.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie gave a halfhearted shrug. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anyway.” Lucille changed the subject. “How was your first day back?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothin’ too special.” Woodie said. He rolled his sore shoulders and neck. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You know who</span>
  </em>
  <span> mostly showed us around the site where Voxola would go, and the land he purchased to clear out. We spent most of the day dividing it up and getting started. I was also informed they’re gonna ship the wood we cut in November and December down here in a few weeks. That should help some with supplies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucille nodded. “I figured.” She pushed the food around on her plate. “You holdin’ up alright? And I don’t just mean physically.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie fell silent. He stared out their window, overlooking their new, barren lawn. “As best as I can be.” He sighed. “I know we haven’t been here that long, but… I already miss home. The ocean most of all. It put me to sleep when I was a tyke. It’s weird now, not seeing it at all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I understand what you mean.” Lucille said. “I miss the St. Lawrence River, and everywhere I look in the distance, there’s corn. I’ve never seen so much corn in my </span>
  <em>
    <span>life</span>
  </em>
  <span> until these past few days. It’s almost nauseating.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The offer still stands if you want to move back to Ottawa.” Woodie said, turning his attention back to her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.” Lucille sighed. “But I’ve already made up my mind when we decided to move.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t forget about it, if you do change your mind. Especially with </span>
  <em>
    <span>you know who</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I won’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good.” Woodie said, then yawned. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I feel like I could sleep for a week right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me too—” Lucille started, then cursed under her breath, her eyes bugging out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...What?” Woodie asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Our sheets.” Lucille said, smacking her forehead. “I forgot to unpack them. Again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Too tired to dig through their luggage, they fell asleep that night huddled under a throw blanket, clinging to each other for warmth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They fell into a routine that was old and new at the same time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Woodie got up early to go to work. Lucille sent him off with a few words of encouragement, a small kiss, and food. She ate breakfast and lunch alone, did chores around the house, went to town, or tended to the garden and flowers outside. By dusk, Woodie returned home, exhausted but content, smelling of fresh wood and pine needles. They ate dinner, talked for an hour or two, then went to bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sunday was Woodie’s only day off. He always looked forward to Sundays, specifically Sunday afternoon and evening. Sunday morning was church at the small chapel downtown. But after that… he could do what he wanted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes it was landscaping in their backyard, sitting with his guitar on their back porch, or just enjoying Lucille’s company, both doing their own thing, but together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes Lucille threw on their gramophone after purchasing some records. Most of the time it was to fill their empty home, but sometimes they danced in their sitting room, gently bumping into things and cursing in the other’s ear, followed by breathless laughter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes Woodie listened to her speak over the phone in rapidfire French, catching up with her family back home. Him barely following along, only getting the gist of things, but content to know they were doing well. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, when sleep didn’t come right away, Woodie watched Lucille sleep, her chest rising and falling with every breath. Pulled in on herself, her curls pushed off to one side, squished between her head and their pillow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Life couldn’t get better than this. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was late summer in 1918 when Voxola finally started to take shape. </p><p>It still needed at least half a year or so of work, but it was finally looking like an actual building. The outside was mostly done; it was now time to work on the inside. The first thing inside was Wagstaff’s new office, a lot bigger than the small room he met Woodie and Lucille in January of 1916. </p><p>When Woodie went to work that morning, he found Wagstaff waiting for him at the doors of the building, carrying some blueprints. He was studying them carefully, before Woodie’s arrival caught his attention. Wagstaff’s eyes snapped to Woodie. “Oh, just the man I wished to see!” He said, rolling up the blueprint and shoving it under his arm. </p><p>“Good morning, sir.” Woodie said. “What can I do for you?” <em> Since when does he come on site? I can’t remember the last time he’s been here— </em></p><p>“I was hoping you could help me out.” Wagstaff said. “See, I want to move my belongings from my old office to my new one. I’d like to be on site more to make sure things go smoothly while the finishing touches are going on. I would do it myself, but my knees and shoulders aren’t what they used to be. I’d ask some of the others, but… you seem the most trustworthy.”</p><p>“Sure.” Woodie said. “I can help you out.”</p><p>“Excellent.” Wagstaff said. “I’ll be in my new office organizing what I brought over already. I’d like to be done by this evening, if possible.”</p><p>“I’ll see what I can do.”</p><p>“Excellent, excellent. There’s some moving equipment already at the office. That should be of use to you.” Wagstaff handed Woodie his old office keys, before sending him on his way. </p><p>Once out of an earshot, Woodie sighed. <em>What the hell did I get myself into?</em> <em>Thank God town isn’t that far of a walk, but sheesh.</em></p><p>Woodie let himself into the building. He walked in on the secretary that he vaguely recognized from a few years prior, cleaning up her stuff and packing her things into boxes. She glanced up at Woodie and studied his face for a few seconds, before returning to her organizing. “Are you the moving guy?”</p><p>“You could call me that.” Woodie said. “You alright there, eh?”</p><p>“I’m fine.” She said. Still not looking up from her notes, she said, “Please keep Mr. Wagstaff’s notes and belongings as neat as possible. He’s very… <em> particular </em> about how they’re organized. Things out of place could set him back <em> weeks </em>.” </p><p>Woodie felt sweat pop up on the back of his neck. “Yes, ma’am.”</p><p>“Thank you.” She said. “If I need you, I’ll call you.”</p><p>“Sounds good to me.”</p><p>With that, Woodie went to Wagstaff’s office. He stared at the door for a few seconds, before unlocking the door and stepping inside. He left the door half open behind him. </p><p>The office was about the same as he remembered it being: mostly empty. The filing cabinets were still the same, Wagstaff’s desk was barren, and the chalkboard on his wall was scrubbed clean of chalk. </p><p>Woodie sighed into the empty room. “Time to get to work.” He mumbled to no one. </p><p>He stood there for a few minutes, his arms crossed over his chest, just taking the entire room in. <em> Where the hell should I even start? </em></p><p>He moved some of the smaller items outside, before moving to the walls. Woodie pulled Wagstaff’s blackboard off his wall and placed it on his desk. He dusted his hands off, then turned his attention back to the wall. The first thing Woodie noticed was how faded the wallpaper was around where the blackboard once sat. </p><p>The second thing Woodie noticed was that wallpaper didn’t exactly line up with the wallpaper on the rest of the wall. It was offset ever so slightly, giving an awkward appearance. He blinked. “That’s… odd.” He mused. His heart beat dully in his chest as he approached the wall. </p><p>He spared a glance at the half open door; the secretary was gone. Letting out a small sigh of relief, he felt along the edge where the wallpaper didn’t line up properly. At first, he felt nothing out of the ordinary, until his fingers caught on a small lip. His heart beat faster. He dug his fingers further in, until he heard the sound of groaning wood. With horror, Woodie watched himself push the wall in like a door, opening into a small, pitch black room. </p><p>A small string dangled before his eyes. Sparing one last glance at the door, he pulled it. Light filled his vision, almost blinding him. He squinted against the light until his eyes adjusted. </p><p>He sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. </p><p>A light hung from the ceiling, casting long shadows along the walls. They illuminated a wall of blueprints, from floor to ceiling. There was a small table in the opposite corner, full of pencils and inkwells. A small garbage can next to the desk was overflowing with discarded and balled up blueprints. </p><p>Woodie’s eyes scanned the blueprint wall, trying to take everything in at once. One that caught his eye was some kind of metal humanoid with empty eyes. He couldn’t tell how old it was, but from the curling paper, it had to be a good couple of years. Another blueprint that caught his eye was the ML-77, the gramophone in his own home. Finally, he saw a blueprint for the PR-76, the radio Wagstaff praised so heavily a few years prior. </p><p>He turned back to the table pressed against the wall. On the wall above it, there were a few letters pinned to it. It was hard to make out the scrawling handwriting, but it was signed from someone named Minerva Wickerbottom. They came from an address in New York. The last letter was sent almost nine years years ago. </p><p>Something to his left muddled his thoughts as it tipped over with a terrible crash. Woodie whipped around to the sound, fighting a panicked yell as his heart broke out into a full out panic. </p><p>He almost wished he didn’t look. </p><p>It was some kind of machine in a dusty, cobweb filled corner, thrown carelessly in a heap. It looked somewhat like the mechanical humanoid he saw on the wall, but it only had one eye, and some kind of light on its head. The light was broken, spilling glass everywhere as it stared up at Woodie. Gears and other mechanical parts spilled out of its stomach.</p><p>Woodie’s legs moved without him thinking. He turned the light off with shaking hands, before throwing himself outside of the room. He shoved the secret door closed before leaning against it. He slid down the wall onto the ground, staring off at the window across Wagstaff’s desk. He couldn’t think, could barely even breathe. </p><p>
  <em> What the hell did I just see? </em>
</p><p>The rest of the morning and afternoon was a blur. By the time Woodie was done, he deposited Wagstaff’s keys and belongings at his new office. </p><p>“I hope you found everything alright.” Wagstaff said. He did a quick visual inventory of his items. “Everything seems to be accounted for.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Woodie said. “I found everything.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“So… I see you and Woodie have moved in quite nicely.” Rebecca, Michael’s wife, commented, sitting on Lucille’s back porch with her. A teapot and cups were laid out between them on a small patio table. </p><p>“Mmm.” Lucille mumbled around her tea cup, before finally lowering it from her lips. It took more effort to speak than she wanted to admit. “It took a good few months getting everything settled and sending some things back to my parents, but I’m content with how things turned out.” </p><p>“How are they doing?” Rebecca asked. “Is your father still ill?”</p><p>Lucille let out a faint, annoyed sigh through her nose. When was the last time they talked about her father? It felt recent; too recent. “He’s been fine for a few months. His seasonal pneumonia is usually gone by now. We’re keeping an eye on him, though, with the Flu going around.” </p><p>“I see.” Rebecca said. “I’m glad he’s well.”</p><p>“Me too.” <em> God, this small talk is the worst. </em></p><p>Lucille fell silent, focusing more on her tea. </p><p>Rebecca’s gaze returned to the backyard. Fresh grass grew where it once was bare, and small saplings dotted the landscape. “I see he’s been busy keeping up the place on his day off.”</p><p>Lucille gave a playful roll of the eyes with a small smile. However, her heart still felt heavy. “You’re right about that. Half the time, I have to drag him back inside so he doesn’t overdo it.” Her smile faltered as she stared down at her drink. Her heart threatened to sink a little more. “I worry about him sometimes. I know he can take care of himself, but…he’s only got so much youth.”</p><p>“Maybe the two of you should settle down a little bit more.” Rebecca said. Her voice was light and airy, with a knowing smile on her face. It made Lucille’s inside squirm. “Have you and Woodie thought about, you know… having a family? Have a few kids running around?”</p><p>Lucille froze, her eyes snapping up from her drink to Rebecca’s face. Her grip on her teacup tightened as she tried to keep her composure. “I don’t suppose that’s any of your business, Rebecca.”</p><p>Rebecca blinked, taking a few seconds to collect herself. “I don’t mean to be rude, Lucille, but are you not happy with him? You’ve been married for a few years now, <em> surely </em> you’ve had talks with him about a family. I know this ain’t Canada, but it’s still a beautiful place to raise children.”</p><p>“We <em> are </em> a family already.” Lucille snapped, her lips curling back over her teeth; anger and resentment flared in her like a forest fire. “And yet you don’t see me tellin’ you how to live <em> your </em> life with Michael, hm?”</p><p>Rebecca fell silent. She stared down at her cup, not responding. </p><p>“Look, Rebecca.” Lucille placed her cup down heavily on her saucer. “If you’re not gonna be respectful of Woodie and I, in our home, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”</p><p>That got Rebecca’s attention. She stared up at Lucille like she had three heads, her eyes wide. “I-I’m sorry?”</p><p>“You heard me.” Lucille snapped as she stood up quickly, her chair scraping the deck. Wagstaff’s knowing gaze danced on the edge of her mind’s eye, making her shudder in the summer breeze. “I will <em> not </em> have you throw <em> mud </em> at our marriage and my <em> dignity </em>. Please, gather your things and leave. Don’t show your face here again until you want to apologise. But honestly? I’d prefer you don’t come back. Your gossip drives me insane.”</p><p>Rebecca stumbled over her words, her face growing red in embarrassment and shame. She attempted to gather her things, her cup long forgotten. “I-I’m sorry--”</p><p>“You are <em> not </em>sorry!” Lucille spat. “Get the hell off our property!”</p><p>With a faint squawk and her head bowed low, Rebecca clutched her purse to her chest and excused herself. Lucille, bubbling with anger, had the decency to walk her through the house to the front door, before letting her out and slamming it in her face. </p><p>Breathing hard, Lucille stared at the door for a few seconds as her brain processed what just happened. Her anger lessened, before it was replaced with numb shock and regret. </p><p>For the first time in what felt like ages, Lucille sobbed, slumped on her knees with her forehead pressed against the door. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“...Are you okay?” Woodie asked, attempting to hack through the heavy silence between him and Lucille after their dinner. “You’ve been quiet.”</p><p>“I could say the same thing to you.” She replied. They sat in their bedroom together. “What’s with that face? Did something happen?”</p><p>Woodie sighed. “If I tell you, can you keep a secret, eh?”</p><p>Lucille fell silent for a few seconds. “That depends on the secret.” She attempted to laugh. “Did’ja finally kill the old man?”</p><p>Another sigh. “I wish.”</p><p>Lucille’s laugh faltered as her eyes snapped to Woodie; he looked pale. She cursed under her breath. “<em> Mon dieu. </em> That bad?”</p><p>Woodie nodded.</p><p>Reluctant, he told her about cleaning out Wagstaff’s old office and finding his secret room. Her expression was hard to read the whole time as she stared off into space.</p><p>Finally, when Woodie was done, Lucille mumbled, “I fucking <em> knew </em> he was suspicious. I <em> knew </em> it!” She practically jumped up from their bed and paced around their bedroom. “I <em> cannot </em> believe I was actually right!”</p><p>Woodie ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I should’ve declined his offer and listened to you.” Woodie whispered. He looked up at her, a guilty look on his face. “I’m <em> so </em>sorry, Lucille. ‘I had no idea’ sounds like a terrible excuse right now, but that’s all I got.”</p><p>Lucille stopped her pacing and looked at Woodie. Her expression and stature softened slightly as she sat back down next to him again. “If this was a normal circumstance, I <em> would </em> be angry at you.” She said. “But this is… kind of big. Likely <em> bigger </em> than anything we can really deal with right now. This could be a goddamn <em> conspiracy </em>.”</p><p>“I’ve come to that conclusion.” Woodie shook his head. “It makes me woozy at the thought of it. I’d… rather not get involved.” Woodie paused. “<em> Unless </em> I have another lead. Even then…” He trailed off. </p><p>Lucille took this in. “I understand.” She said. “Still… when you’re around him, keep an eye out. And keep yourself safe. You don’t have to worry about me; I swear to God I won’t tell anyone.”</p><p>That got a small smile out of Woodie. “Thanks. I knew I could trust you.”</p><p>“You’re welcome.”</p><p>“Now… didn’t you have something on your mind, eh?” Woodie asked. He sounded tired, but his shoulders slumped less now.</p><p>Lucille’s eyes bugged out in realization. “Shit, I almost forgot about that.” She hesitated, before sitting back down next to Woodie. She stared down at her lap, mulling over her thoughts. “It’s okay, Woodie. Really. You already had a helluva day. You don’t need this on your plate.”</p><p>Woodie wrapped an arm around Lucille’s shoulders, bringing her close to him. “Don’t worry about me.” He said. “I hate seein’ you upset. You can tell me.”</p><p>Woodie’s comforting smell of wood chips and pine needles washed over her. She took it in for a few seconds, then sighed. “Alright, alright.”</p><p>Into Woodie’s shoulder, Lucille explained her run in with Rebecca. She felt Woodie stiffen around her, but he was silent, not saying a word until she was finished. “You might wanna… stay away from Michael for a bit.” Lucille mumbled. “Or, you know, forever.” She felt small. Too small. “I <em> swear </em> I was trying to be nice, but…” She trailed off.</p><p>“...<em> are </em> you unhappy?” Woodie asked; he kept his voice level. “And be honest with me, Luce.”</p><p>Lucille sighed again. “Yes and no. I’m not unhappy being <em> with </em> you. I <em> promise </em> none of this is on you. But everything else? The move? Rebecca? The old man? <em> Especially </em>now that I know he’s a crook? Yeah, I’m unhappy.”</p><p>He sighed. “I was worried about this.”</p><p>“I was trying to put it behind me. Look past it all. But I can’t deny it now. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t be.” Woodie said. “I’d rather you not keep it to yourself, eh?”</p><p>“I know, I know.” </p><p>“Just… know that I’m on your side.” Woodie said. “I know we haven’t really had any talks about… you know, havin’ kids, but… I figured you’d talk about it when you were ready. Whatever your decision is, I’ll be fine with it. I promise.”</p><p>“...Thanks.” Lucille said. “I know I’d feel a little… <em> better </em> about things if we moved back home, but… I still think it’s a ‘no’ for a while.”</p><p>“That’s fine. Maybe in a few weeks I could ask <em> you know who to </em> lay me off a few months early, eh?” Woodie suggested. “It feels a little too… sudden and possibly suspicious if I ask him tomorrow, but… He might let me go; Voxola is nearly complete. I’m pretty sure the others would be able to finish without me and still have it be completed on time.”</p><p>“You’d do that?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Woodie said. “I like this house, sure, but… I don’t think I could live here. Besides, the trees back home won’t chop themselves. I <em> know </em>I’ll have work. ...Even if it means being away from you again.”</p><p>“God, I forgot about that.” Lucille groaned. “I’ve gotten so used to seeing you around all the time… I don’t win regardless, huh?”</p><p>“I’m afraid not. Sorry, Luce.”</p><p>“I think I can live with that. For real, this time.”</p><p>They lapsed into a comfortable silence, just taking each other in. Lucille was the one that eventually broke it. “Woodie?”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“I need a favour.”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>“Please, for the love of God, don’t start anything with Michael.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> January 1919 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> To the Beaufort family,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’ve written and thrown out this letter to you a dozen times. There’s no better way to admit what I’m about to tell you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Lucille passed away from the Spanish Flu earlier this month. I’m so, so sorry. We’re unable to send her body back to Ottawa. They’re trying to prevent the spread as much as possible.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was sudden. There wasn’t much we could do to help her recover. I tried to be there as much as I could, but with all the other sick and dying… It was difficult. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> As soon as I’m able to travel, I’ll be coming home. When everything calms down, we should have a funeral for her.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Woodie </em>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Woodie couldn’t sleep.</p><p>The grandfather clock ticked in his room, indifferent to his insomnia. With a sigh, he sat up and squinted at the clock face. <em> 4:06am. </em></p><p>He ran a hand down his face. How long has it been since he slept through the night? He couldn’t remember. </p><p>Woodie’s gaze wandered to the empty spot on the bed next to him, undisturbed since—</p><p><em> That’s enough. </em> Woodie snapped. <em> Go back to bed. Again. </em></p><p>He attempted to settle back down, turning his back to the clock, but something deep emerged from the muddy waters at the edge of his mind. Something even more annoying than the ticking.</p><p>He stayed there for a few moments, before letting out another sigh and getting up. The cold house gave a curt greeting as he lit a candle and trudged downstairs. <em> What the hell could that be? </em></p><p>He passed through their kitchen first like a ghost, then their sitting room. It was some kind of sound, picking at his brain. It got louder in their sitting room, but still didn’t sound or feel tangible.</p><p>Woodie lingered there for a few more seconds. <em> I must be hearin’ things or somethin’. </em>He thought dully, before turning around and attempting to leave.</p><p>And that’s when he heard it. The sound of cranking, gentle feedback, and <em>music</em>. Music that he only recognized from the depths of his childhood.</p><p>Anxiety filled his empty gut as he turned back around to check it out. It was, indeed, coming from that blasted gramophone. But…</p><p>There was no record.</p><p>It was playing music.</p><p>
  <em> By itself. </em>
</p><p>Before Woodie could even comprehend this, he felt a delicate hand on his shoulder. A voice like old velvet filled his every being. “Hey pal, you look like you could use a little pick me up, hm?”</p><p>Woodie almost dropped his candle as he fought a panicked yell. He whirled around, trying to find the source of the voice, and the claw, but only found darkness.</p><p>Ragtime droned on.</p><p>When nothing sounded for a few seconds, Woodie collected his bearings somewhat. “I <em> definitely </em>have to be hallucinating.” He mumbled, about to shut off the gramophone with a shaking hand.</p><p>“I’m sorry to say, pal, but this is <em> definitely </em>real.” The voice spoke again, behind Woodie.</p><p>Woodie’s hand hovered over the gramophone as he froze up again. He turned around and faced the darkness. “What the hell do you <em> want </em>?” His voice dropped in exhaustion and defeat. “I have nothing left in this place. Can’t you just leave me alone?” He paused as he backed up some from the source of the voice. “How the hell did you get in here anyway? We’re not supposed to have company over.”</p><p>“That doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it.” The voice said. It sounded like an older man’s voice, with a heavy English accent, but didn’t sound fully tangible. “I have an offer for you, if you’re willing to take it.”</p><p>Woodie felt like someone socked him in the chest. “I’ve already taken one.” Woodie mumbled. “And I regret it.”</p><p>“I promise you, you won’t regret this one.” The voice said. “Does the name… <em> Lucille </em>… ring a bell?”</p><p>Another punch, worse this time. “D-don’t bring her into this.” Woodie stammered, his fist clenching at his side. “H-how do you even—?”</p><p>“How I know about her doesn’t matter, either.” The voice was aloof. “What <em> matters </em> is that… I have a way you can see her again. You have nothing to lose, after all.”</p><p>Many things go through Woodie’s mind and body in that second. <em> How does he know Lucille? Am I really going mad? Is this the devil?  </em></p><p><em> Do I </em> really <em> have nothing to lose? </em></p><p>“...how?” He asked, his voice barely a whisper.</p><p>“It comes with a terrible, terrible cost.” It said. “And I mean it when I say ‘terrible’. Do you still wish to hear what I have to say?”</p><p>“<em> Please </em> .” Woodie begged. His knees threatened to buckle and give out. He gave in. “I’d give <em> anything </em> to see her again. I swear to God I will.”</p><p>“Good.” Maxwell said. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>In The Constant, Woodie’s eyes snapped open. </p><p>He woke with a jolt, sitting up in his small bedroll. It took him a few seconds to calm his racing heart, enough to take in his surroundings. It was now late morning, and the snow stopped. </p><p>
  <em> Morning? </em>
</p><p>“...Winona?” Woodie croaked. </p><p>There was some rustling, before Winona poked her head out from behind her generator. She had a few grease marks on her face and new ones on her clothes. “Oh, there you are. I was wonderin’ when you were gonna wake up.”</p><p>Woodie ran a hand down his face. “Didn’t we agree I was gonna take next watch?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Winona said. “But you looked kinda worn down, and I wasn’t tired, so I let you sleep.” Winona went back to working on her generator. She pulled the metal casing off the back of it and was fiddling with some wires inside. “Did you sleep alright? I noticed you were wigglin’ around a lot. Have a nightmare?”</p><p>“You could say that.” Woodie said with a small sigh. </p><p>“...You wanna talk about it?”</p><p>Woodie looked between Winona, and Lucy, who was still stuck in the tree stump near their base. “I’ll think about it.” Woodie said, before taking his attention to Lucy. He dusted snow off her handle and blade, before pulling her out of the stump. </p><p>“There you are, Woodie!” She chirped. “I was worried I was gonna be stuck there!”</p><p>“Don’t be.” Woodie said. “I’ll always come back for you.” </p><p>He went to get himself some breakfast. “Did the two of you have some kind of girls night while I was asleep?” He said, trying to make a joke. </p><p>“Actually.” Winona said. “We did talk a bit about… <em> things </em>.”</p><p>Woodie stoppped. “Luce, you told her <em> everything </em>?”</p><p>“What?” Lucy said. “I couldn’t just keep it from her! Or lie, or something. That’s not my style, and you know it.”</p><p>“I do.”</p><p>Winona stopped her tinkering and leaned against her generator, crossing her arms over her chest. “...Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked. There was no anger in her voice, but faint annoyance bubbled underneath. </p><p>Woodie looked down at Lucy. “I wanted to put all that behind me.” He said. “Too painful of memories. I’m sorry. But I wasn’t hidin’ anything when I said I didn’t know a thing about your sister. I swear to God I didn’t know. And I wish I did, at the time, if it could’ve prevented all this.”</p><p>“That’s alright.” Winona said. “I understand.”</p><p>Woodie let out a breath. “Thank you.” </p><p>He spent the morning going over, in detail, what he found in Wagstaff’s secret room in his office. Winona’s face was hard to read the whole time. She just sat and listened, leaning against her generator, eyes closed in thought. </p><p>“So I <em> was </em> right.” She muttered. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“...I would have investigated more.” Woodie added. “But I didn’t have any leads, or had any idea what all of those blueprints meant. All I knew was that it was something terrible. Evil, even. And I just… kept it to myself. Mostly out of fear. For myself, and Lucille.”</p><p>“I could have taken care of myself!” Lucy quipped. “Besides, I was almost convinced you killed the old man when you told me what you found!”</p><p>“It would’ve saved me a lotta grief if ya did.” Winona said.</p><p>“Anyway,” Woodie said, “does all this answer your questions? Some of them at least, eh?”</p><p>“Yeah. I think so.” Winona gave Woodie a small smile; some light returned to her eyes. “Thanks.”</p><p>“You’re welcome.”</p><p>“Now that we’re done having a tender moment,” Lucy interrupted, “are you gonna chop trees or what?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Woodie's quote for the clockwork bishop: "It's been a while since my last confession." hits different if you consider he was likely still in the real world while the Spanish Flu was going on and couldn't go to church because of their quarantine. </p><p>Anyway, what's the weirdest thing you've done while in quarantine? I'm watching some subbed German opera on YouTube, specifically the Wagner Ring Cycle, which is the opera Wigfrid is a reference to.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you want more of Woodie and Lucille, I’d read two of my previous fics, Lucille and A Ghostly Reunion. </p>
<p>Also, I do art. I’m a little shy to actually post my stuff, but I drew Lucille a little while ago, plus other things I’ve drawn. I feel okay enough to share it with ya’ll. <br/>https://forums.kleientertainment.com/forums/topic/117223-blues-art-and-fics/</p>
<p>My new official name for Winona's board in Next of Kin is the "Lore Tumbleweed"; the more you look at it, the worse it gets, but you can't stop sifting through it. And maybe it'll drop gears idk</p></blockquote></div></div>
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